"Yes, but your gallantry keeps you from telling the truth; which is that
the women, in cases of this kind, are much older and more experienced."
"Are they? Well, perhaps she is, NOW. She is dead."
Mrs. Ashwood walked her horse. "Poor thing," she said. Then a sudden
idea took possession of her and brought a film to her eyes. "How long
ago?" she asked in a low voice.
"About six or seven months, I think. I believe there was a baby who died
too."
She continued to walk her horse slowly, stroking its curved neck. "I
think it's perfectly shameful!" she said suddenly.
"Not so bad as that, Mrs. Ashwood, surely. The girl may have loved
him--and he"--
"You know perfectly what I mean, Mr. Grant. I speak of the conduct of
the mother and father and those two sisters!"
Grant slightly elevated his eyebrows. "But you forget, Mrs. Ashwood. It
was young Harcourt and his wife's own act. They preferred to take their
own path and keep it."
"I think," said Mrs. Ashwood authoritatively, "that the idea of leaving
those two unfortunate children to suffer and struggle on alone--out
there--on the sand hills of San Francisco--was simply disgraceful!"
Later that evening she was unreasonably annoyed to find that her
brother, Mr. John Shipley, had taken advantage of the absence of Grant
to pay marked attention to Clementina, and had even prevailed upon that
imperious goddess to accompany him after dinner on a moonlight stroll
upon the veranda and terraces of Los Pajaros.
Pages:
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166